Thin Armour
by Teeny Spankster
Summary: In-game moment between Cid and Vincent, yaoi implications. Vince is hurt; Cid needs a cigarette real bad.


Teeny says: Don't own nothing. Just my computer. S'pose my Visa owns that, really. This has implications of yaoi. Don't like yaoi, don't read, simple as that. I live in a flame-retardant cupboard under my sink, anyway.  
I don't remember lots about the game, but this is in-game. Somewhere between Rocket Town and kicking the shit out of Sephiroth. Don't know yet if it's just a one shot or if I'm gonna keep going. Depends on reviews, I guess.  
Rated PG-13 for Cid's use of the F-word. That's right. Fuccille.  
  
My skin is such thin armour.  
  
No one touches me. Not a tap on my shoulder, not a companionable palm-open slap on my back, not even a lingering glance in the eye that can sometimes leave marks like fingerprints. It didn't take long for them to understand. There's a reason for the clothes and cape and guns. No one touches me. I am only human. And inhuman.  
  
But someone has had to touch me to bandage me. I can feel the brittle pull of stitches where that damn bird…  
  
My shirt. Where is it? Not in this room, evidently. Well, that rules out leaving. But I can stand and examine. Not a bad cut, maybe a few days at most before I forget it's there. My boots, where are they? Oh, this isn't going to happen again, I'm going to make sure of it.  
  
Muted voices approaching. Cid, and Cloud. I'm not sitting down again. They can just give me my clothing back and get out. I'm obviously fine.  
  
No knock. The bastards.  
  
"Shit, Vince. Didn't expect you to be up already."  
  
"Where is my shirt?"  
  
"Drying."  
  
"My boots?"  
  
They seem to exchange a glance before Cloud cocks his head a little to say he's got somewhere else to be. Cid fakes a manic smile at Cloud's back as he enters and closes the door.  
  
"Guess I'm the fuckin' nursemaid, huh? Shoulda kept my damn mouth shut."  
  
"My boots?"  
  
He sets something down. A roll of bandages. Oh, goody.  
  
"They're drying, too. We had to wash the blood off before any more of those son's o' bitches came after us. Fucking blood everywhere, we practically had to douse you with canteen water. Sit down, gotta change those 'dages."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Bandages, man! Sit down."  
  
"I can change them myself."  
  
"You move that arm, those stitches are comin' out. Just sit and lemme do it. Only be a second."  
  
"I can…"  
  
"Look!" His eyes burn with an anger not solely directed at me. "You open those stitches, you're gonna be 'ttracting every fucking vulture in the neighbourhood, and I'm not gonna be the only fucking sensible one on my fucking airship or everyone's getting off. Now, the longer you argue, the more awkward this is gonna be, so just sit down and shut up and let me do this!"  
  
For a moment, I see the whole picture through his eyes. We're in badlands, we're running out of supplies, Tifa has a broken arm that a cure spell couldn't totally heal and everything she was taking care of has fallen to him. Cloud's being a jackass, in a hurry, and the others are no help. And I'm being a petty fucking child.  
  
I sit with a sigh and resign myself to unavoidable proximity. I refuse to be a part of the problem.  
  
"Right." He grabs up the bandages and crouches down in front of me. But this isn't a good position for what he needs to do and, with a curse, he stands again and puts a knee on the mattress.  
  
"Do you want me to get up…"  
  
"Keep your fucking ass on the bed."  
  
He pulls the old dressings, damp and uncooperative with blood, off of me in jagged portions and throws them on the floor before unrolling a long highway of gauzy white. Then he mutters another curse and stands to look at me.  
  
"Okay, fucking stand up."  
  
I stand and, when he gives a rough gesture to the point, raise my arms until I can feel the stitches pulling at my skin. Muttering under his breath, he begins to wrap the bandage around my ribs and abdomen until the slice is hidden again. An amateurish job, but I'm not about to say so. The binding is tight and will serve its purpose. He pauses for a moment before apparently deciding that he's finished. Taking an edge in his mouth, he tears the gauze from the roll and starts to fingernail the dressing over my ribs, looking, I suppose, for a place to tuck the end piece.  
  
Oh…oh shit…  
  
I don't want to wriggle. But even through the bandage I can feel his fingers scrabbling for purchase and I can't help my body's instinctive twitch.  
  
"Hold still, ya damn prude."  
  
This time I intentionally jerk away. Proximity is one thing, but I don't need him to…  
  
"Dammit, will ya just stand still? It's just gonna take a second. Damn fingernails, always breaking. Never have 'em when I need 'em…"  
  
He changes tactics impatiently, fingers almost raking against me. And I feel it like an itchy, tingling bit of lightning. Forgotten what that feels like. He chooses another spot and my body encourages me to arch away again. I only realize after a moment, when he stares up at me, that I made a sound. A grunt, maybe, a breath through my teeth, I can't remember. But his eyebrows are climbing up toward his goggles and I have to assume it was enough to give me away.  
  
Damn. Such fragile armour against my own humanity.  
  
"That tickles," I grudgingly admit.  
  
His grin -- it's strange that I realize I haven't seen it in awhile -- bursts through with something half scoff, half chuckle. "Well, damn, I guess yer not made of ice after all." He leaves the edge dangling and, smirking traditionally, heads toward the door. "You finish that up. I gotta make sure we can still take off." With his hand on the knob, he turns back to look at me as I tuck the end of the bandage out of sight. His lingering smirk makes me want to find my gun. But a rapid, involuntary glance of his eyes, sweeping me up and down, makes me feel a sudden, peculiar tension, and my mind slips to wondering dumbly what gun I have with me.  
  
"Once yer dressed, I need somebody who's not gonna bitch to hand me tools, since my crew's already working a shitload of overtime. Think you could manage?"  
  
I give an automatic nod before I've completely absorbed the question.  
  
"Good, I'm heading down to the engine room." He starts to open the door, and then stops to peer over his shoulder. "Oh, shirts're in the top drawer, yer boots are next door." He steps out of sight. "Wouldn't do no good to have you wandering around half naked."  
  
I feel like the moment I saw light again, like I've stepped into the wrong room. My armour, a piece of me tries to realize, wasn't the real shield against something as inescapable as daylight.  
  
I crush it all down and grab a work shirt. The feeling will pass. Though I don't expect I'll be allowed to forget it. 


End file.
